


Memoirs of a Tiger

by ordinarypeopleboreme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Angst, Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinarypeopleboreme/pseuds/ordinarypeopleboreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'No one just 'hears about' Moriarty.' At least that's what I was told and soon enough, I would understand exactly why." Based loosely on 'Professor Moriarty: The Hound of the D'urbervilles' by Kim Newman. A few aspects are similar to the book but in no way have I plagiarised anything he has written. This is for entertainment purposes only and I do not claim to own any of the characters mentioned~!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Man and a Card

If there's one thing you learn from me, it's that you should never trust anyone–– and I mean anyone–– by the name of Patrick or any variation of the damn name. Patrick, Cedric, Keifer… I should probably stop before I go off on some fucking tangent but take my advice and stay away from anyone with any of those names. Back to Patrick–– oh, take a wild guess as to what his surname is! Fitz-fucking-Patrick. His parents must've hated him something fierce, poor old sod. Anyway.

We had a meeting – quite a one-sided meeting if you ask me, but I was quite used to that from Mr. Fitzpatrick. Oh, did I forget to mention that I've known the sap for the past two decades? Oops. Yeah, he's an acquaintance of mine. So what? Just because he's an arrogant, untrustworthy sod doesn't mean I can't use him for what he's worth which was at one point in time, a few good lays and information… Hopefully he was still the go-to guy for information. 

"You're lookin' good, Moran." A blatant lie if I ever heard one. I mean, I know I wasn't too hard on the eyes but it was only after six… seven years in the service and eight in India that I was finally back in London. With the time overseas, I was branded with brand new battle scars–– some visible, some not so much, but either way, I was older - much older than he remembered. So, all I could do was laugh quietly at the compliment which wasn't really a compliment at all. It was just the way he liked to distract his prey. 

"Not here to be 'seduced', Patrick." 

"Oh, I know why you're here. Gun for hire now that you're all big n' bad, hm? Think since you've killed a couple a foreigners, you can play with the big boys?"

Alright, so he knew exactly what to say to get my blood boiling and my face a bright vermilion. Knuckles whitening with the grip I had upon an imaginary vice… and the bloody knob could see it all. 

"Or is it your little run-in with Kali's Kitten that's got your ego so inflated?" 

"Just shut the fuck up." 

"Still got the same temper I see." 

Oh, he had no idea just how bad I could get and I was just about to show him, maybe leave him with a broken jaw or nose, or even both, but his entire demeanor changed and his face grew serious again. "Alright Moran," he finally huffed about after a moment or two of staring straight into my soul with those cool eyes, "Let's get this over with before you bash my skull in." 

To be quite frank, if I weren't desperate for work, I would have done just that, but… 

"Moriarty." Couldn't help but to blurt the bloody name out, and I swear, the moment I did, I felt the entire pub turn cold and everyone inside went silent. At the time, it seemed ludicrous, like the name was sacred or forbidden or some shit. The way Patrick stared at me; you'd think I just shot his dog. About a minute of awkward silence passed before the man started in with the hysterics: arms flailing and several death glares paired with a 'hush!' every now and again. "Watch where you're throwin' that name around, Sebastian." 

_He used my first name._

Fitzpatrick never used my first name and despite how off it made me feel, I managed to chuckle at his hysterics and you know what else? I said the name again. For shits and giggles mostly. 

"Moriarty," I said, "boring old Irish name. What's the big deal?" I fucking shit you not, the dirty bastard reached right over that damned table and clasped a burly hand over my mouth. My initial reaction was to jump up, Webley in hand, but somehow, I resisted the urge to shoot his head clean off his shoulders. 

"Tell me right now how you know that name." Don't fucking doubt me when I say that I was only seconds away from slaughtering Patrick right there, but I needed to know what was so god damn special about 'Moriarty'. 

"You know how it is in the slums, Patrick," I started in once he took his hand away from my mouth, nonchalant as always about the whole situation, "I heard word that Mor-." I stopped myself from saying the name when I watched Patrick's eyes widen, "…that he's lookin' for a shooter." Wary, unbelieving, suspicious; all were feelings and thoughts that I watched cross the red-faced man's features. 

"No fuckin' way, Moran. No one just 'hears word' about… him." 

I had to roll my eyes at that. How the fuck else would I have heard it!? And that's exactly the question I asked and the sod's reply was to pull out a card from his shirt pocket. Strange looking card with a scrawl that was barely readable except for two letters. 

_JM._

He held it between his index and middle fingers, a very obvious anger written upon his face. "No one just 'hears about' Moriarty." He repeated himself and even spoke the name aloud that time. 

"If that'll be all for you gentlemen…" The barman came over to our table to drop the bill off (two beers in total) but he never placed it on the table, only stared hard at the card and without any further interruption, he gave a quick nod and scurried away, unpaid bill still in his hand. 

"Take this," Patrick tossed the seemingly important card my way, still red-faced and white-knuckled, "and this too." If I knew any better, I would have said I could hear bitterness on his tongue as he wrote down an address upon a loose napkin. "And that's where you'll find him," he spat, "while you're at it, tell the bastard that I resign."


	2. A Man With a Gun

I killed people. A lot of people. _Loads_ of people. I was in the Army for seven years, of course I killed people. I poached tigers in India and I killed the most evil bitch there was: Kali's Kitten. Mean, nasty tiger, but I respected her - even after she nearly took my entire right side off. Swiped me real good… Can't remember too much after that except that I went tumbling down a fucking sewer with the cat attached to my wide. But she's dead now. Shot the girl dead when I took what I thought would be my last breath. I was nearly famous for that kill; the arsehole's wanted to put my scar in the spotlight but I said to hell with that. Three claw marks that begin above my right nipple and curve about my shoulder and to my shoulder blade. Ain't nothin' appealing about that. That's not the point though. The point is, I've seen some scary shit in my lifetime but out of every fucking thing I've ever seen - out of any body I've ever faced, there wasn't anything more terrifying than the man who was sat at his desk in front of me. How do I even describe something so terrifying?

Jet black hair which was only slightly receding (he had to be in his mid-thirties), his eye colour matched his hair colour, (ain't never seen anyone with black eyes), and his neck… It was long - not abnormally long, just… His posture and the way he carried himself made his neck seem longer than average and there was this… thing that he seemed to do quite frequently, where he would swivel his head on that long neck in a serpent-like manner.

_Serpentine._

That was actually a rather perfect description of the man. Jim Moriarty with his snake-like eyes that could haunt even the most gruesome of creatures, sharp teeth, and sinewy, wiry fingers.

I didn't know which fit him better - spider or snake - but either way, he was attractive, painfully so, and he had my full attention as he listed off my entire history starting with my father, mother, brothers, and sisters. Okay, so he did his research. Good for him.

"Do you know what the point of all of this was, Sebastian?" It was a damn good thing that his black eyes irises were focused on the folder in his hand rather than at me or he would have noticed the shudder that rattled my spine just from the way he said my name.

Sebastian. Seb- _ass_ -chien.

Intricate, making sure not to miss the pronunciation of a single vowel or consonant… and that was just it. It wasn't his good looks or even that sultry voice paired with that lovely accent– it wasn't his physical attributes that made him so damn attractive, it was how thorough he was – in everything he did and in everything he said.

"No." I finally replied. Sure, I had my ideas of why he made me sit through every fucking detail of my life but I wanted to hear it from him.

"Tsk." He tapped his tongue against the roof of his mouth, annoyed apparently, with my answer. "I could claim that it was to show you that no matter what the information, I can siphon it from the past without much difficulty, but I would have pulled up a far more interesting record for that. Could say a number of things, Sebastian."

Maybe he did spot the shiver that shot up my spine earlier? Why else would he draw out my name?

"But I honestly did it for no reason in particular."

I pursed my lips to stop a sigh from escaping my mouth but there was nothing I could do about the dramatic eye roll that I know he saw clearly.

"Something the matter, darling?"

Nope. That was it. I was pissed the fuck off and not even a gag was going to stop be from going off at that point. "You takin' the piss?" I didn't just fucking stand there in his office for two god damn hours for no good reason.

"Pardon?"

"Taking the piss. It means–."

"I know what it means, Sebastian Moran. I'm not a proper idiot."

Rule #1: Don't interrupt me.

"Are you sure about that, Moriarty? Because a proper idiot would waste another man's time for the fuck of it."

Those snake-like eyes burned a hole straight through me, that fucking head craned from side-to-side, and before I even knew what was happening, the Irishman was on his feet and my right cheek was stinging from the full-force backhand he landed upon it. "You talk to me like that again, Moran, and I will put a bullet through your fucking skull."

No one - no one - ever, ever, ever, ever had the nerve to slap me. Anyone who wanted to was too afraid of what I might do, but not Moriarty. No, it was far too obvious that Moriarty wasn't afraid of anything. Those who feared nothing were always the most terrifying, horrifying creatures because that made them inhuman. Fear was natural, an instinct that every man had hardwired into their brain from birth… but that was the difference between man and Moriarty… and that is exactly why I walked out of that office, a polite decline of any job he had to offer me paired along with a quiet farewell to him.

A few days after the meeting with Moriarty, I was contacted, by text message, about a certain job that needed to be done. I was never a big fan of anonymity when it came to people contacting me, but my bank account was slowly depleting, so I agreed to the desperate sounding message and managed to actually meet up with the anonymous sender.

He was ginger; short, fat, and stubby. John Smith he said his name was. "John Smith?" I asked, smirking.

"John Smith." He repeated, face as stoic as can be. It was a lie, but I didn't give a fuck. I knew what he looked like and that was good enough for me. The job sounded simple enough; a flat at the edge of the city. Highland Flats – there was a family of six that lived there. A father, wife and mother, and their spoiled rotten children. All I had to do was kill them – all six of 'em. It shouldn't have been a problem for me, but once I was perched on the building adjacent from my target, once I was behind that sniper scope once more, something triggered within me – something pulled at my gut, and I had no idea what it was until I caught sight of two of the children bounding around in the middle of the living room while their father sat comfortable in a recliner about three feet away from the fireplace. Was it already cold enough for a fireplace? I certainly couldn't tell.

After I swallowed the inner conflict that threatened to eat at the lining of my esophagus, I wiped my forehead, clicked the safety off which resulted in a small 'click!', and rested my finger just so against the trigger. Just as I was about to pull my finger forward, the lights in the flat went out, the curtain was pulled quickly to cover the window and I knew I was fucked. How the fuck did they know!? I let the question rattle around my head for about five minutes, heart racing rapidly against the inside of my rib cage as my vision started to blur just from utter rage.

"Shouldn'ta hesitated."

An unfamiliar voice spoke behind me but before I could turn my head to look at the intruder, cold metal was pressed to the back of my neck and I was forced to keep my rifle just where it was on the ground. "Up, boy. You're comin' with me."

I remember a few things (getting bashed over the back of the head by the butt of a gun was one of them) before waking to the god-awful feeling of rope pressing against my adam's apple. I was standing though, surprisingly enough. Instinct musta kicked in even in a state of semiconsciousness and my body did whatever it could to keep me alive even if that meant being forced to stand on the tip of my shoes on a wooden table.

"Who ya workin' fer, boy?" Bloody Americans. I looked down at the lot of them from where I was forced to stay standing, and instead of there only being six, there were two more who were armed with rifles of their own. Even in my daze, I managed to smirk sarcastically at the weapons in their hands. "Tha fuck you smilin' 'bout?" Well that was just unfair! How was I supposed to answer a question that I was obviously unable to answer with the rope around my wind pipe?

Apparently that didn't matter to the father, who kicked the leg of the table, causing it to wobble and thus causing me to gag and nearly sputter. "Weapons." I gasped and only then did I realise that my hands were tied behind my back by the same rope and even my ankles were tied rather loosely. "Ya won't shoot those in here." I eyed the two men carrying the Colt's – was still able to tell the make but through the haze I was in, I couldn't yet tell the model… Which was fine because I had an idea. A rather stupid idea but it was an idea nonetheless.

"And why not?" Came the reply from the first male. He was inexperienced, and honestly that was probably his first time holding an actual rifle. Could have revealed that right then and there but that would have only given myself away.

"Don't let 'em change tha subject!" The father, whose drawl was so sloppy and annoying that it was almost painful to listen to, snapped about, his foot landing against the leg of the wooden table again. And again, I gagged. "I asked you a question, boy, now I want'a answer!"

I didn't even remember what the question was at that point, but I thought it would be the best time to start in with the antics I had planned. "Timothy S…Sweeten."

Timothy Sweeten. The fuck kind of name was that? "My name is Timothy Sweeten." At least it sounded almost believable.

"Not what I asked, Sweeten. If ya don't answer me in the next ten seconds, I'm pullin' the table."

Desperate times called for desperate measures and I was in an incredibly desperate situation. No amount of physical strength, no amount of experience prior was going to get me out of the situation. If I didn't improvise, I was going to die and there was no fucking way I was going to die by being hanged by a family of Americans.

"Get this damned rope offa me and we'll talk." I knew I was in absolutely no position to be making demands but it gave me a few more minutes to think something up. Something clever because the old bloke wasn't an entire idiot like I had thought.

"Get behind him. Don't want no funny business." The two armed individuals stood behind me just as he demanded and much to my surprise, he pulled out a knife from his pack and cut the rope. "Let ya down, Sweeten. Now talk."

After I fell (rather dramatically) off of the table, I rose to my feet, shoulders back and spine straight – dunno why I was so fuckin' proud. "Ain't working for nobody." That earned a swift flurry of knuckles to my bottom jaw.

"Didn't take ya down from that table to be told a lie, god dammit!"

"Ain't a lie. I don't know a damn thing about the old bloke. It was an anonymous message." From what I could tell, the look on my face was completely innocent and a wee bit apologetic but inside, my insides were burning. I wanted to kill the man and all of his children right there – not even for the money, but out of cold blood. "I ain't here to kill you, ya' idiot." Not what I had in mind for improvisation, but it would do.

"S'cuse me?" His right eyebrow twitched and his left hand followed suit with it's own twitch. He wanted to kill me almost as much as I wanted to kill him, but he wouldn't. As much as he didn't believe me, I poked at his curiosity.

_Now isn't the time to get cocky, Moran._

"Look. I'm desperate for work," wasn't a lie at least, "and I have been for quite some time. I received the message early this morning that I was to protect a family – mother, father, and four kids. I wasn't given any details as to why I had to protect you, and I didn't ask for any." I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. Yes, I was nervous – the pride fled the moment I started talking again. When I saw that he wasn't taking the bait, I almost told him the truth… Damn, I was rusty.

"Protectin' me, yeah? What the hell d'ya think I have those two for?" He pointed his knife toward the two sharpshooters behind me and I shrugged, my eyes still focused square on his.

"I was supposed to know about them?" I asked, the question as genuine as I could make it, "Obviously someone out there wants you heavily protected. Why don't you think hard on who would find you any sort of valuable?"

I watched his eyes shift from my person and to the ground, up to the ceiling and back to me. He was doing exactly what I wanted him to do- he was thinking about what I just said. Thinking about just who could want him alive so damn bad... But then he asked an unexpected question.

"Who ya protectin' me from?"

I stared at him. Blankly stared straight at his ugly face for what had to be a good two minutes before I blinked even once. If that wasn't the stupidest question I ever heard... "Now how in the hell am I supposed to know that?" The father didn't move a muscle but the two sharpshooters moved from behind me and to either side of the man. They were terrified, oddly enough, and I was so fucking tired of running around in circles at that point, I almost pointed it out. Almost opened my mouth to reveal the fear on their faces but they armed themselves after sharing eye-contact for a split second.

"Moran." The one on the left spoke my surname and I felt every ounce of blood drain from the rest of my body and find my feet once again, but I kept my composure, and as much I wanted to respond to my own name, the expression on my face remained blank and clueless.

"Excu-." Before the father could even finish his sentence, I watched the marksman on the right step back a bit and I braced myself for what was about to happen. My ears were ringing, there was blood on my face, and not only was I confused as all hell, my fucking hands were still tied behind my back! Before I could even argue, there was a blindfold around my head, covering my eyes and there were five more gunshots that rang throughout the flat.

"Thanks a lot, ya fuckin' twats." No clue if the words even came out or if anyone even heard 'em, but once the flat went completely silent, I assumed that my insult went unheard until I felt a heavy foot hit behind my knees, knocking me right onto my arse. Lovely. Just as I was about to give the intruder a piece of my mind, I heard that voice.

 _That_ voice.

Shoulda known that the devil was in the room by how fuckin' cold the place got.

"And here I thought you were better than that, Moran~."


End file.
